


Gehenna

by Avery11



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Halloween Challenge 2012, Paranormal, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:30:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon have gone undecover as male models at a London fashion house. It doesn't take long for them to realize that something is terribly wrong. Written for Halloween Challenge 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gehenna

 

   
 

“This is ridiculous,” Illya whispered furiously as they sat in the outer offices of the _House of Lilù_ , portfolios in hand. “We are enforcement agents, not fashion models.”

“We are whoever UNCLE says we are, _tovarisch,_ ” Napoleon whispered back. “HQ suspects that THRUSH is somehow using this fashion house as a conduit for disseminating classified information here in London. It's up to us to find out how they're doing it.”

“As male models?” Illya rolled his eyes. “Why couldn't they send us undercover as buyers? Or tailors? I would rather sew a garment than prance in it.”

"As models, we'll have better access to the collection, not to mention the employees and the backstage area at _Lilù_ ,” Napoleon replied for what felt like the thousandth time that morning. “We need to find out if the stolen information is being sewn into the garments like it was the last time.*”

“But --”

“It's no use arguing. Sir Winston asked for us specifically, so try to make the best of it.” He straightened his raw silk tie and settled back to wait. “Relax. Enjoy the view.” He winked at a rail-thin blonde in a Mary Quant shift dress that left little to the imagination. The young woman sniffed and turned away, apparently content to munch on her carrot stick.

“You are losing your touch, Napoleon.”

He shrugged. “Who can blame her. It's probably the first decent meal she's had all day.”

“Starvation diets; another thing to hate about the fashion industry.”

“Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin?” the receptionist announced. “Master Lilù will see you now.”

They picked up their portfolios and trotted past the dozen or so hopefuls who had received callbacks that morning. Twelve sets of eyes followed them through the heavy brass doors. “Remember,” Napoleon hissed, “act haughty, disinterested, like you don't give a damn whether you get the job.”

Illya snorted. “I don't.”

They stepped across the threshold.

Auguste Lilù's salon was an homage in black and white -- dramatic, starkly elegant, and undeniably sensual. A pair of curved leather sofas dominated the room, their ebony legs sinking deep into the plush white carpet. The sofas flanked a coffee table of hammered brass. White lotus blossoms floated in a crystal bowl atop the table; their petals gave off a heady scent. A fainting couch of tufted black leather, set off to one side, completed the tableau. Black and white photographs of past collections lined the walls.

The ceiling of the salon was high and arched, the plaster decorated with ornate carvings of mythological beasts. The floor to ceiling windows were draped in black and white striped _dupioni_ silk; were they open, they would have provided a lovely view of nearby Regents' Park. In the corner stood a red-lacquered grand piano, the single note of color in the room. A scattering of candles provided the only light.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” said the severe-looking man at the window. I am Auguste Lilù.”

He gestured toward a group of two men and a woman already seated on the sofa. All three were dressed in black, the woman's attire accented by crimson lips and scarlet nails, as though she had dressed to complement the room. Or perhaps, thought Napoleon, the room had been designed to complement her. “My sister and muse, Anna. My partners, Dalmat Galico and Pjetër Cana.”

Lilù extended his hand -- to shake, Napoleon assumed, and extended his own.

“Your portfolios, please.”

Napoleon recovered quickly, and handed over the folder. Illya raised a single eyebrow, and handed his over as well.

“Nice bone structure on the blonde one, don't you agree?” said the sister, Anna. “Rather delicious.”

“A bit on the thin side, and too pale, one thinks,” replied the one identified as Dalmat, a doe-eyed glitteratus in a Nehru jacket and black dancer's tights. He turned to Illya. “Take off the shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shirt. Off. You do speak English, don't you?” Dalmat snapped his fingers.

Illya lifted his chin but, at a warning glance from Napoleon he complied, slipping first, his jacket and tie, and then the crisp white shirt from his shoulders.

“Oh, look, he's blushing,” exclaimed Anna. “How lovely. All that blood rushing to his face.”

“Mmm, yes,” said Dalmat. “Perhaps you're right, dear. He'll photograph well, with those angular cheekbones.”

“Let's see the other one,” said Pjetër, who until now had remained silent.

Napoleon obediently removed his blazer, tie and shirt, and laid them neatly over the edge of the sofa.

Pjetër circled him, somewhat like a tiger stalking its prey. “Masculine. Toned. Graceful.” He turned to the other three, nodding. “This one has runway potential, and from the cut of his trousers, decent taste.”

“Very well,” Lilù said, sounding bored. “I'm satisfied. Sign them both.” He turned, dark eyes sweeping the room, and Illya was struck by the powerful energy emanating from the man. “Welcome to the _House of Lilù._ You'll be helping to show our Fall collection. Talk to Clarissa at the front desk. She'll provide you with the standard contracts and waivers.”

“Waivers?”

“A regretful necessity,” Lilù remarked easily. “Catwalks can be fraught with peril, you know. One slip --”

“Not to mention the fittings,” Napoleon added sardonically. “All those sharp pins --”

Lilù laughed. “Ah, charming. I knew you would understand. And now, gentlemen, I have a number of other appointments this morning --”

Sensing their dismissal, Illya and Napoleon retrieved their clothes, and restored themselves to a semblance of decorum.

Anna held the door open for them. She smiled as they passed. “Mmm,” she sighed, reaching up to caress the pulse racing at Illya's throat. “Good enough to eat.”

 

*/*/*/

 

“Well that was creepy,” Napoleon said as they waited for the elevator that would take them downstairs, into the bowels of the fashion house.

“Creepy?” Illya glared. “It was beyond humiliating. I felt like a slab of meat. And those _people_ \--” He shuddered. “There was something 'off' about them. Didn't you feel it?”

“The elitism of _haute couture_ , I suppose. Tell a man he's brilliant enough times, and eventually he'll start to believe it.”

But Illya shook his head. “No, it was something more. Something --”

The elevator pinged its arrival just then. “Oh well, at least they bought our cover story,” Napoleon said. “Let's find out what we need to know about THRUSH's activities here, and get the hell out before somebody asks us to strip again.”

“Or sticks us full of pins,” was Illya's muttered reply.

 

*/*/*/

 

The head tailor looked up from his work table, examining the newcomers with a curious eye. “You the new models?”

Napoleon nodded. “That's right. Napoleon Solo. And this is Illya Kuryakin. We were told to report to you.”

The old man stood, and took a moment to work the kinks from his back. He held out his hand. “Maxwell Perlmutter, but most of the models just call me Max.” He brushed aside a pile of unfinished patterns and located his tape measure. “Let's get yer measurements, and then we'll see what's what, shall we?” When the men didn't move, he cocked his head, waiting.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks. “Do we, uh --?”

“Down to yer skivvies.”

Illya sighed. “Again?”

“New to this, are ye?”

Napoleon nodded. “Does it show?”

The old man shrugged. “No worries. Ye'll get the lay of the land soon enough. An' ye both have 'The Look.' Master Lilù must've been right pleased to get 'is hands on you.”

The men disrobed for the second time that morning, and the old man began measuring inseams and arm lengths, chattering away as he worked. “Good to see some new blood around here fer a change. Most o' the models are pretty stand-offish. Bunch o' skinny snobs. At least the pair of ye got a bit o' meat on yer bones. An' we've been understaffed for models, ever since --” He turned away to mark down a set of numbers, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Since --?” Illya prodded.

Max glanced up a bit sheepishly. “Sorry. We're not supposed to talk about it.”

“It? Mr. Perlmutter, if something is going on --?”

“Max. Call me Max.” He blew out a long breath. “I suppose ye deserve to know.” He sat down, suddenly looking older and more careworn. “There've been -- disappearances. _Lilù_ models goin' missing. A half-dozen over the past year, all in the vicinity of Regents' Park. The youngest was barely seventeen -- Emily, her name was. Jus' up an' vanished one night on 'er way home from work.” He snapped calloused fingers to demonstrate. “The police never found no bodies, neither.” He shook his head sadly. “It's getting hard to find models willing to work at _Lilù_ nowadays. Word gets around, ye know?”

They nodded.

“Please don't let on that I told ye, gents. Master Lilù frowns on gossip. It'd mean me job.”

Napoleon smiled his reassurance. “Our lips are sealed, Max. And thanks for the warning. We'll be careful.”

“Jus' don't go walkin' through Regents' Park after dark. It ain't safe there no more.”

 

*/*/*/

 

Once their measurements had been taken, Illya was sent off to Photography for some preliminary shots, while Napoleon was scheduled for the first of several fittings with Master Lilù in the main salon. They agreed to rendezvous for dinner at the pub near their hotel.

Illya was dismayed to learn that Dalmat Galico had been placed in charge of the photo shoot. The man gave off a strange, off-kilter vibe, almost like a pheromone, that left him feeling slightly nauseous whenever he drew near.

“Put him in the black ribbed turtleneck,” Dalmat ordered the dresser. “Black jeans. And be quick about it.”

The poor girl practically genuflected in her haste to obey.

“Let's begin with some head shots.” He placed Illya against a black wall, arms folded across his chest. “Now then, how best to highlight that magnificent bone structure --?” He took his time, tilting Illya's face this way and that, his hand occasionally lingering just a bit too long on cheek or jawline. Illya's eyes grew hard.

“There!” Dalmat exclaimed at last. “Now, hold that. Cue fog.”

A light, cool mist surrounded Illya almost at once. Dalmat slipped behind the camera and began to click off shot after shot. “One likes the intensity of the eyes,” he said. “Predatory, yet charmingly vulnerable.” Click, click. “Moisten the lips a bit. Lower the lashes. That's it.” Click click.

Illya did as he was instructed, but his jaw clenched in anger.

Click, click.

At last the interminable shoot was over. “Master Lilù likes to examine the test shots over supper,” Dalmat said as he gathered up the rolls of shot film. “One thinks he will be pleased with these.”

Illya couldn't get away fast enough. Some part of him was desperate -- almost to the point of panic -- to break out of the cloying confines of the miserable, decadent place, and to escape into the open, where he could breathe clean, fresh air once more. _What is wrong with me?_ he wondered.

Napoleon was waiting for him when he arrived at the _Lamb & Kipper_. The senior agent had selected a table near the back, and ordered shepherd's pie for both of them. Now Napoleon's food sat before him, untouched. Illya thought he looked tired.

“Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix,” Napoleon said. “I had no idea modeling was such hard work.”

“You should try photography. An afternoon in Dalmat Galico's clutches, and I am in need of a long, cleansing shower.” Illya took a swallow of ale, and tucked into his pie with a vengeance. “So, did you uncover any evidence of our feathered friends in your travels?”

Napoleon stared. “Feathered friends?”

“You know, THRUSH. Those annoyingly persistent thorns in our collective sides?”

“Oh. THRUSH.”

“So, did you find anything?”

“No.”

Illya looked at him oddly. “Are you alright, Napoleon? You seem -- I don't know --”

“Tired, that's all. I'm tired.” He threw some cash down, and rose from the table. “I think I'll turn in. If it's all right with you, we can compare notes tomorrow.”

“Of --” _Of course_ , Illya started to say, but Napoleon was already gone.

 

*/*/*/ 

 

He seemed better in the morning, laughing and joking as the pair made their way back to the _House of Lilù._

“I must have had a touch of jet lag or something last night, but I'm fine now.”

“I was worried,” Illya admitted. In truth, he still was. He had never known his partner to suffer from jet lag before.

They crossed Regents' Park, and were passing the Royal College of Physicians when they spied the knot of Scotland Yard Inspectors clustered in conference beside Park House. Yellow crime tape fluttered in the breeze.

“What do you suppose that is?” Illya asked.

“Dunno. Let's go find out.”

They sauntered closer, joining the growing throng of passers-by. “What happened?” Illya asked an older woman with curlers in her hair, who was out walking her King Charles Spaniel.

“Strange doings in Regents' Park these days,” was her cryptic reply.

“Oh?”

She nodded vigorously. “All them _mur-ders!_ Ain'tcha heard? An' then, last night, some fella saw -- well -- a grey figure roamin' about in the mist.”

Illya nearly laughed out loud. “I see.”

The woman shook her finger at him. “Ain't no laughing matter, young man. Fella saw a tall man in a hat, too, and another man on a bicycle. _And_ a woman in a white dress!”

“I am afraid I don't understand the problem. It is a public park, after all. Why shouldn't they be here?”

“In the middle of the night? _And_ he claims he heard bells ringing, and voices chanting.”

“Again, it is a public park.”

The woman stared Illya up and down. “And _now_ , just this morning, mind you, some jogger found a den of foxes, all with their throats slit, the blood drained out of them. Bone dry they were! Explain that!” she humphed. “Gives me the willies, it does!” She shook her head. “I won't walk my Chauncey in this park anymore.” The woman trudged away, her yipping spaniel in tow.

Illya stared after her. “That was strange.”

Napoleon clapped him on the back. “I'm sure Scotland Yard will sort it out eventually. Come on, _tovarisch_ , our new employers won't appreciate it if we're late for work.” He took off at a brisk clip toward Regent Street, leaving his partner hurrying to catch up.

Illya couldn't stop thinking about the dead foxes.

 

*/*/*/

 

Once again, they were separated -- Napoleon sent to be photographed in a selection of fur-lined outerwear while Illya learned the ins and outs of runway protocol. They agreed to compare notes over supper at the _Lamb & Kipper._ Meanwhile, Illya explored as much of the building as he dared, but found nothing whatsoever to indicate a THRUSH presence at _House of Lilù._

When it was time to leave, Illya breathed a sigh of relief. He changed into street clothes, and made his way upstairs to the main desk, anxious to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of the fashion house. “Excuse me,” he called to the receptionist, “do you know where I can find Mr. Solo? We were supposed to meet for supper, but he seems to be running late.”

“The dark-haired man with the sad eyes? Oh, he left.”

“Left?”

“About an hour ago. Said he felt sick. Poor man, he did look awfully peaky.”

Illya's radar went off the charts. He summoned a cab to take him back to the hotel, and paid the driver an extra five pounds to break the speed limit.

 

*/*/*/

 

Their room was dark when he entered, the curtains drawn. Napoleon lay curled up in the bed, shivering, despite being wrapped to his eyeballs in the hotel comforter. He looked pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Illya reached over to turn on the bedside lamp.

“No. Don't.”

“You are sick, Napoleon.”

“Flu. I'll be fine tomorrow.”

Napoleon's hair was damp with sweat. His eyes were feverish, unfocused.

“You are sick,” Illya repeated, reaching for the phone. “I am calling the doctor.”

“No!” Napoleon seized the handset, replaced it in the cradle. “No doctor. Please, Illya. I'll be fine tomorrow. You'll see.”

 

*/*/*/

Once again, he seemed better in the morning, although his cheeks were flushed and he looked rather glassy-eyed. Napoleon seemed to possess an unnatural store of energy, practically bounding across Regents' Park, as though he couldn't wait to get to work.

“Why the hurry?” Illya called after him. “We are not due at _Lilù_ until nine.”

“Time and tide, _tovarisch_. Time and tide.”

Illya fell back, his mind occupied with the residue he had discovered on the collar of Napoleon's discarded shirt that morning -- two perfect circles of dried blood. He had seen such a mark once before, as a young child wandering in the company of the Gypsies.

_Strigoi._

He chided himself for his suspicions. _Ridiculous. Napoleon cut himself shaving, that is all. And yet_ \-- An uneasy feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

“You go on,” he said. “I want to stop in for a cup of tea before work.”

“No problem. I'll tell them you're on your way,” Napoleon waved, and continued on.

Illya watched him go, worry clouding his blue eyes. He turned toward the spires of St. Mark's Church, a plan beginning to form in his mind.

He stopped first at a nearby kiosk to purchase a cup of tea, which he promptly dumped on the sidewalk. He hurried across the park with the empty cup, and arrived at St. Marks just as the morning service was concluding. He waited until the parishioners had filed out of the nave, then slipped inside and filled the paper cup with Holy Water from the font by the door. He replaced the lid on the cup, and dashed back across the park to Regent Street, and the _House of Lilù._

He caught up with Napoleon in the models' dressing room.

“Feeling better now that you've got your cuppa?” Napoleon asked as he adjusted the collar of the lambskin blazer Lilù had designed, one of the signature pieces of his Fall Collection.

“Much.” He removed the lid and pretended to take a sip. Leaning toward Napoleon, he allowed a portion of the cool liquid to spill onto his friend's hand.

Napoleon howled in pain. “Hot! Oh, God in Hell, it burns!”

Illya went pale. “How clumsy of me. Here, let me wipe it off --”

“Get away from me.”

“Napoleon?”

“Leave me alone!” The senior agent rose, arms flailing, knocking over his chair in the process. He rushed from the room, his eyes wide and panicked. Illya promptly poured the rest of the Holy Water over his own face and neck. Had he been religious, he might have said a prayer.

 

*/*/*/

 

He sought out Max in the workroom. “I need to ask you something,” he said.

Max laid down the garment he had been cutting, and gestured for him to be seated. “Sounds serious,” he replied warily.

“I'm afraid it is. I need to know -- is there any part of _Lilù_ where access is severely restricted? A place where even you cannot go?”

“Well --” Max chewed his cheek, thinking. “There's the vault down in the sub-basement. That's where all the samples from the new collection are kept. Ye'd be amazed at how many blighters try to get a sneak peek at the garments before the runway show. Nobody's ever allowed in the vault, except for Master Lilù and his sister, o' course.”

It made sense. The vault was private, out-of-the-way, shielded from prying eyes. It was the perfect hiding place. Illya made a decision. “I need to be away from _Lilù_ for several hours, but I do not wish anyone to know I have gone. Will you cover for me?”

The old tailor looked into Illya's blue eyes, saw desperation written there. And something else. Fear. “What about yer friend?” he asked. “Couldn't Mr. Solo do it?”

Illya shook his head. “Napoleon is -- indisposed. I do not wish to disturb him.”

“I see.” After a moment, he nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

Illya's relief was palpable. “I promise, I will return as swiftly as I can.”

“No hurry. I got plenty of work to keep me occupied.”

 

*/*/*/

 

It was growing dark by the time Illya returned to _Lilù_. The staff had already departed for the evening, and the building, emptied of its humanity, felt at once cavernous and claustrophobic. Illya's footsteps echoed on the marble tiles; his blood pounded in his ears.

He ignored the elevator, choosing instead to slip down the emergency staircase to the basement, duffel bag in hand. Max was waiting for him in the workroom.

“Thought ye'd fergotten about me,” the old man said. “I was jus' packing up to go home.”

“My errand took longer than expected,” Illya replied. “Did anyone ask for me?”

“Dalmat. He was angry, said ye'd missed an important shoot. I told him ye were looking fer him, wanted to apologize.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and Anna was here. She wanted to invite ye to supper.”

 _So, they were growing suspicious._ “Thank you,” Illya said. “You should go home now, Mr. Perlmutter.”

Max hesitated. “Will ye be awright, then, down here all alone? Maybe I ought to stay and --?”

“Go home, Max. Now.”

Something about the way Illya said it chilled the old tailor to the bone. He packed up his sewing kit and departed without another word.

Illya slipped silently down the back staircase, moving through the shadows toward the sub-basement vault. As he approached, he began to hear a whisper of music threading its way down the darkened corridor. An LP, _Crimson and Clover,_ by Tommy James and the Shondells.

“Crimson and clover...over and over...”

Sounds of laughter. The reek of candle wax.

A woman's voice, humming along.

A long, drawn-out moan.

_Napoleon!_

He eased open the door to the vault.

Napoleon lay upon a divan of white satin, his nude body glistening with sweat. The cushions upon which he lay were spattered with bright red blood.

 _Napoleon's blood,_ Illya thought, and felt his insides turn to ice.

He was terribly pale, nearly translucent. His lips were tinged blue. His eyes, though open, were glazed. It was apparent that he saw nothing of his surroundings, and yet he wore an expression of such utter rapture that Illya nearly gasped in shock.

The four vampires -- Lilù, Anna, Dalmat and Pjetër -- gathered around him, caressing his body as they took turns feeding, their sharp fangs fixed upon various parts of his flesh.

“Yes,” Napoleon whispered. “Yes.”

Illya's stomach roiled.

Anna's tongue flicked out to lick the blood seeping from Napoleon's neck. “This vessel is nearly empty,” she declared petulantly. “When can we start on the other one?”

“Patience, my pet,” Lilù replied. “One course at a time.”

The others laughed, as though Lilù had said something terribly funny. But Anna merely arched her brow, and sank her teeth into Napoleon's neck once more, piercing the jugular. She lapped hungrily, the crimson blood dripping from her lips.

Shaking with fear and rage, Illya reached into the duffel he carried, and withdrew a wooden stake, one of several he had carved that afternoon. He took a deep breath, slid open the vault door and, as their awareness of him dawned, flung the stake across the room with all his might. It struck Anna in the chest; she exploded before his eyes in a terrible flurry of black flies and ash. Her scream was murderous, inhuman.

The three remaining vampires turned as one. Dalmat and Pjetër moved toward him, faster than Illya thought possible. Their eyes burned with hatred.

He hurled two more stakes in swift succession. The first struck Pjetër in the chest and, like Anna, he exploded, a shrieking black hole of nothingness. The second stake also found its mark, and Dalmat fell, mortally wounded. He stared at his chest in amazement, as though unable to believe his eyes. “One -- is -- unused to such treatment,” he said, and then he, too, was gone.

Illya turned to face Auguste Lilù.

“You have murdered my kindred,” Lilù murmured, and Illya felt the full force of the vampire's wrath turned upon him. It was like walking through a forest of knives.

“You tried to kill my friend,” Illya replied, his voice hard.

“Kill Napasha? Foolish child, that was never our intention. He was to become one of us, as were you. Transformed, immortal.”

Behind them, Napoleon tried to rise. “Please, Master,” he said. “Please.”

“Look at him,” the vampire said. “He wants it. He craves it. He would do anything I desire of him. He would even kill you, if I asked it.”

Of that, Illya had no doubt..

Lilù took a step toward him. “It continues to amaze me, how heartless you humans are.”

Illya cocked his head. “An odd thing for a vampire to say.”

“Odd, perhaps, but true.” Another step. “You think me cruel. Tell me, is it kindness or cruelty to deny your friend his deepest wish? To deny yourself?” Another step.

“Stay where you are.”

Lilù held out his arms, a father embracing his children. “Come to me, Illyusha. Leave behind your shameful secrets, your dark memories, your dull little morality play of a life. Rise! Be reborn, into a world where life is forever, and nothing you desire is impossible!”

“And where everything desired is paid for with the blood of Innocents?” Illya shook his head. “Napoleon would not wish for such a thing, were he in his right mind. Nor would I.”

“A lesson in scruples? From an assassin?” Lilù's dark eyes glittered with malice. “Oh, yes, I know exactly who and what you are. Napasha has been most -- forthcoming.”

Illya's jaw set. “Enough,” he said, and reached into his duffel. “Time to die.”

In that instant, the vampire moved. He seemed to fly across the room, catching Illya in a grip so powerful, it drove the air from his lungs. His strength was incredible, irresistible. His breath smelled of attar.

A hand reached up to clutch Illya's throat. “Your meddling has cost me dearly, little fool,” Lilù spat. “Thanks to you, it will be necessary to relocate my base of operations, and begin again in another city. New York, perhaps.” He nodded to himself, the idea catching fire. “Yes, New York. You and Napasha will join me there, the first fledglings in my glorious new nest.”

_“Svoloch!”_

Lilù tightened his hold, and suddenly Illya found it hard to breathe. Spots danced before his eyes.

“Imagine a vampiric UNCLE turned loose in your world. With you and Napoleon as my emissaries, I can infiltrate your puny organization, and bend it to my will. Together, we will feast upon the blood of the Innocents. A fitting punishment for your interference, don't you think?” He smiled, exposing sharp yellow fangs. “Shall we begin?” He bent his head to Illya's neck, and bit directly into the vein.

Illya cried out. The pain was unbearable.

Lilù began to suck, and the pain receded, replaced by a soft glow of pleasure. Illya gasped, tried desperately to hold on. Failed. He heard the vampire's voice inside his head, slithering beneath his defenses, irresistible and seductive. _Accept me, little one, and live forever._ His fingers grew numb; the stake slipped from his hand.

Without warning, the old tailor burst into the vault. Howling in rage, he attacked, driving his scissors into Lilù's back with all his feeble strength. “Monster! Let him go!”

The vampire, distracted from its feeding, turned to swat away the troublesome mortal. Illya, grasping at the last vestiges of his sanity, dropped to the floor. He retrieved the fallen stake, rolled to his feet, and plunged it into Lilù's heart.

The vampire exploded in a bilious cloud of black flies and attar. His terrible scream lingered in the air long after he had vanished.

Napoleon cried out, a shuddering cry of loss.

Illya rose, gasping for air, and stumbled to his side. One glance was all it took to convince him of the gravity of the situation. Napoleon was barely breathing.

“Open Channel D, medical emergency! Kuryakin here! Agent down!” He gave the address, adding that the patient would need copious amounts of transfused blood. “We have an injured Innocent as well.”

Napoleon was bleeding out. Illya seized a shirt from Lilù's Fall Collection, now never to be shown. He tore the garment into strips, and used the pieces to staunch the flow of blood. The attempt was futile, he saw at once. Blood continued to seep through the bandages; they were soaked in seconds. _An anticoagulant in Lilù's saliva,_ the scientist in him realized. He covered Napoleon with his jacket, anxious to keep him comfortable until the paramedics arrived.

Max, meanwhile, had managed to haul himself to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, wiping away the blood oozing from a gash above his left eye. He seemed dazed. “Cor',” he muttered, “Did I see that? Was Master Lilù really a --?”

“A vampire. Yes.” Illya reached for his duffel.

“The rest of 'em, too? Anna and Dalmat and --?”

“Yes. All of them.”

“And they killed all those people? Those models? Emily?”

He nodded.

Max's eyes filled with tears. “Why?”

“Why does evil ever do what it does?” Illya knelt beside the body of the vampire. Using a knife, he severed the tendons at the knees, and drove hawthorn stakes through both legs.

The old tailor stared. “What are you doing?”

“Auguste Lilù was the Sire of this nest, a vampire Prince of the First Order. It will take more than a single stake to kill him.”

“You mean he's not _dead?”_ It was clear the thought horrified Max.

“Not yet.” Illya took a deep breath, and drove a third stake through the creature's slack mouth.

Max went green about the gills. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

Max looked away.

Illya hammered a series of iron needles into the creature's torso; the two largest, he drove into Lilù's eyes. Finally, he covered the body with hawthorn branches and a dusting of poppy seeds.

When the preparations were completed, he stood and lit a match.

_''Cei plecați, strigoi!”_ he cried, tossing the match atop the body.''Begone, Undead One!”

The hawthorn branches began to smoke and spit.

 _''Nu ai nici acasă aici._ You have no home here!”

Sparks flared along the tips of the wood.

 _''Te-am alunga!_ I banish you!”

The fire caught; the branches leapt into flame.

 _''Sunteți respins._ You are repelled.”

The flesh grew plump, began to sizzle and pop.

 _''Lasă acum. În numele a tot ceea ce este curat și pur, plecați. Plecați!_ Leave now. In the name of all that is clean and pure, begone. Begone!”

A scream of piercing, pure terror filled the night. The corpse crackled and collapsed, the demon inside vanquished at last.

Max's eyes were wide. “Is he dead?”

Illya nodded. “Very.”

Smoke began to fill the room, the fire spreading rapidly through the racks of clothing.

Illya swept Napoleon into his arms. “Time to go,” he said, and pushed Max ahead of him up the stairs. The body in his arms felt weightless, insubstantial. He could no longer perceive the rise and fall of Napoleon's chest.

They exited the burning building just as the UNCLE Medical Team arrived. The physician on call took one look at Napoleon and began to bellow orders at his people.

“Number fourteens, pressure cuff the blood, _now!_ ”

The paramedics placed Napoleon on a stretcher, administered oxygen, and inserted catheters into his forearms. They attached a plastic blood bag to each catheter, the bags jury-rigged with pressure cuffs that, when inflated, would help to force blood back into Napoleon's oxygen-starved body. Illya and Max climbed in behind them. The doors closed, and the ambulance sped away.

Illya leaned his head back against the side of the vehicle. He was terrified for his friend, and exhausted beyond words. His entire body shook. Around him, the various machines beeped and wheezed.

The driver called back to them. “Dispatch wants to know -- has the fire department been called?”

Illya glanced back at the blazing building. He shook his head. “Let it burn,” he said, and turned to watch the doctors try to save his friend.

 

*/*/*/

 

“I must admit,” The Old Man said, “I find it devilishly hard to believe that a nest of --” He coughed discreetly. “-- vampires -- decided to set up shop in the middle of London. It sounds like something out of a Gothic novel.”

“It was not the welcome we were expecting,” Illya allowed.

“No, I imagine not. The building was a total loss, you know. Not a wall left standing.”

“Bodies?”

Waverly shook his head.

“We never did find evidence of THRUSH, Sir.”

“Faulty information, I suppose. If THRUSH was ever involved with the _House of Lilù_ \-- and I begin to doubt it -- they are gone now.”

Illya nodded to himself. “That reminds me, Sir, now that the fashion house is gone, Max and the rest of the staff will be out of jobs.”

“Yes, I suppose that's true.”

“Sir, may I remind you that Max was ordered to leave the building, and yet he chose to stay behind and help us, at great personal risk. He saved our lives.”

“I've read your report, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Perlmutter's actions were indeed commendable. Your point?”

“Since we are indirectly responsible for the man losing his job, isn't there something we can do to show our gratitude? Help him get back on his feet?”

Waverly passed a folder across the desk. “Already taken care of, Mr Kuryakin. I met with Mr. Perlmutter over lunch two days ago. He impressed me as a fine, honorable man. Rather a kindred spirit, if you want to know the truth.” Waverly chuckled at some private joke. “As a consequence of our meeting, Max has been offered a job here at UNCLE. He'll join Giovanni's crew as one of the tailors manning Del Floria's. As an employee, he'll be able to take advantage of our excellent health benefits package. We've set up a dental plan and a retirement stipend for him as well.”

If Illya was surprised by his superior's generosity, he didn't show it. “Thank you, Sir.”

“It was the least we could do.” Waverly turned to his CEA, and his glance sharpened. “How are you feeling, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon manufactured a confident smile. “The doctors tell me I'll be ready for light duty in another week or so.”

“Hmm, yes.” Waverly reached for his pipe, toyed with the stem. “Any lingering effects from your -- mistreatment?”

Napoleon thought about trying to brazen it out, but discarded the idea almost at once. Waverly was no fool. “Nightmares,” he acknowledged quietly.

“I see." The Old Man examined his CEA's face, still terribly pale despite the best efforts of the UNCLE medical staff. "And what is it you dream, Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon turned his face toward the sun, just rising behind the United Nations tower. He closed his eyes, drinking in the sweet warmth. He sighed. “That Illya was too late.”

 

*/*/*/ 

 

 

* Season 3: _The Hot Number Affair_

Many thanks to Sparky for her medical expertise, and her knowledge of 1960's-era emergency medicine.

  
 


End file.
